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What Camping in Oregon Taught Me About Fully Meeting Myself
A new perspective on awe, discomfort, and growing pains
“Welcome to the Pacific Northwest,” my brother replied. I was recounting to him — my Seattle-based sibling — how I felt living in Oregon. For a place with such stupendous mountains, it had weather that cloaked them most of the year. It was a bit ironic, I said, not to mention a real shame. Beauty should be beheld.
My boyfriend, James, and I have been living nomadically since January, and Eugene is the fourth place we’ve called a temporary home. We were eager to spend the month of May in Oregon. Our first week we wasted no time: attending bingo at a local brewery, joining a community run club, and watched a University of Oregon track meet at Hayward Field.
But aside from a UO runner busting out a five-minute mile, Oregon hardly gave a striking first impression. Eugene was quaint, and thus gave a welcome in such style. In lieu of the exorbitant input that I’ve grown accustomed to when grappling with a new sense of place was a calmness, a quiet sense of inclusion, as if this time the door didn’t burst open but tenderly clicked ajar. This sense continued to strengthen a bit more each day, as I spoke with friendly people and inhaled air fragrant with clove, licorice, and fresh pencil shavings.
